


Arrivals and Departures

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink, M/M, oblique reference to child abuse, reference to sexual abuse of males
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:57:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock realised the identity of his rescuer he had looked... Mycroft pursed his lips. He had never seen Sherlock look so thrilled with another human being who wasn't dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrivals and Departures

**Author's Note:**

> John Watson's career is a puzzlement and open to numerous theories. The only certainty is that he must have gained an additional qualification as a GP (General Practitioner) or he wouldn't have been able to work as one once back in England. Given his age, competence, and the fact he was still only a captain when he was invalided out, I've presumed he joined up as a doctor and hadn't been in the army for many years. As a GP he wouldn't have worked outside Camp Bastion - doctors and surgeons don't go out in the field to, or with, patrols, paramedics do. So I came up with the most likely explanation I could think of for John to see the 'lot of injuries' Sherlock refers to. 'Bit of trouble too' 'Yes,' says John, 'Enough for a lifetime, far too much.' 
> 
> The story assumes a knowledge of the episode 'A Study in Pink'.
> 
>  
> 
> With grateful thanks to Beth H for her speedy beta.

SATURDAY, 23RD JANUARY 2010

"I was hoping for something a bit more scenic than Baker Street," said Lestrade, who was looking remarkably cheerful, despite the cold and damp of the Saturday morning.

"This detour is only because of an errand I must run before we take off for the Steam Museum. I thought you could have a coffee in the café farther down the road, while I..." Mycroft trailed off into silence.

"While you what?" asked Lestrade, as Mycroft come to a halt in front of a scuffed black front door marked 221B. "Who lives here?" he added curiously. "I'd've thought this area was a bit down-market for you."

Mycroft gave him a would-be quelling look, which had its usual degree of success.

"Well, is it?" pursued Lestrade. "And you're looking shifty. Well, shiftier than usual."

"Sherlock's nanny owns the entire building."

"He's too old," said Lestrade predictably.

When Mycroft gave an exaggerated wince, Lestrade eyed his relaxed face with satisfaction; so far their holiday had been perfect - and it still had a day and a half to go.

"Martha Hudson - her married name, although she's now a widow - rents rooms. A flat here is now available," Mycroft added.

"How are you going to convince Sherlock to leave Montague Street?" asked Lestrade with suspicion.

"No need. He's been given notice to get out by the end of the month. I'm simply trying to ensure he moves somewhere decent - without him being aware of any input from me, of course."

"And when did you hear about him being kicked out?" enquired Lestrade with suspect affability.

Mycroft looked vague.

Lestrade's expression underwent a ludicrous change. "Oh, God. You arranged it, didn't you. Mycroft, even Sherlock has the right to choose where he lives!"

"And he will, just as soon as he meets Mrs Hudson accidentally, as per my plan. Montague Street is a hell-hole," Mycroft added defensively. "Besides, the man who moved  into the ground-floor flat was a dealer."

"Was?" asked Lestrade, with some trepidation.

"Don't be so dramatic. I supplied certain information to the Drugs Squad, after ensuring Sherlock was far away - and that his flat was devoid of any trace of narcotics. The Drugs Squad found quite a haul."

"And did it all belong to the dealer?"

"Most of it."

Lestrade laughed and held up his hands in defeat. "Don't tell me any more. I wouldn't fancy my chances if I tried to arrest you."

Mycroft's mouth quirked. "Resist the temptation. It would result in far too much paperwork for both of us."

"Almost worth it just to see Balasha's expression," mused Lestrade.

"There's a worryingly wistful note in your voice."

"I don't get much fun in my job," Lestrade explained. "Why can't I come and meet Sherlock's nanny? Wasn't she yours, too?"

"Certainly not, I was seven and had just started as a day pupil at Westminster Under School. Martha never liked me."

Lestrade cocked his head, refusing to fall for the wistful note in Mycroft's voice, because it never boded well for truth and honesty. "And why would that be?"

Mycroft gave a theatrical sigh. "I suppose it might have something to do with the fact I tried to bribe her to protect Sherlock until I got home from school in the afternoon."

"Aged seven?"

"Don't start." Mycroft tucked his arm into the crook of Lestrade's.

"Didn't she want to protect Sherlock?"

"On the contrary, she was outraged I thought there could be any doubt that she would. But a few weeks later there were two kinds of cake for tea - and she never left Sherlock alone once Father was home," Mycroft added, his voice flattening.

Lestrade drew Mycroft a little closer in lieu of the hug he wanted to offer, while wishing he could have met Mr Holmes, senior. Just for ten minutes or so.

"If you're in the dog-house with Mrs Hudson, won't she snitch on you to Sherlock?" he asked, to lighten the mood.

"Not if I explain the situation in full. She was an excellent, if unorthodox, nanny for  Sherlock. He was heart-broken when she left to get married. I'd tried to warn him not to get too attached, but to no avail."

And because Mycroft's normal armour seemed to have slipped, Lestrade said: "Do you want me to come in with you?"

"Best not," said Mycroft, refocusing with a half-smile that looked genuine. "If Sherlock finds out you were here he'll definitely smell a rat."

"Speaking of which, I once saw a live one at Montague Street," offered Lestrade. "Only I wasn't sure if Sherlock had imported it for one of his bloody experiments. Is Mrs Hudson house-proud?"

"I have no idea," said Mycroft blankly.

"You'd best hope she isn't. In any event, you'll have to warn her about the experiments. If she has a weak heart..."

"She survived a decaying pigeon under her bed. Not to mention Sherlock blowing out the windows of the nursery. Don't ask," Mycroft added, pre-empting Lestrade. "I was proposing to make private payments to keep her sweet. And don't look at me like that. It isn't a bribe."

"You can't be developing a conscience," teased Lestrade.

"Just a nervous tic. For which I blame you. This flat would be perfect for him," added Mycroft, reduced to self-justification under Lestrade's amused gaze. "But it has two bedrooms, which means it's more expensive than Montague Street. While Sherlock could easily afford it on his own, I'm hoping it will spur him into trying to find another flatmate. Particularly once I remind him of our wager."

"Why? You got rid of his other would-be flatmates in seconds flat."

"Because that's the speed at which each of them accepted a bribe to betray him to someone they had had every reason to believe was his enemy. Sherlock shouldn't live alone. He needs someone of his own. Not necessarily a lover, but a friend. A true friend." Mycroft paused, stared at the pavement, looked up, grimaced and added in a rush, "It wasn't until I met you that I began to appreciate what he's missing."

Lestrade's expression softened to something approaching the fatuous. "You sweet-talker you. For that, I'll let you off the Steam Museum. What would you like to do instead?"

Mycroft's expression brightened. "Well, if  you really don't want to go out to Brentford, as it happens, there's an Antiques Market today at - "

"Mycroft Holmes, did you have that in mind all along?"

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "Much to my chagrin, it never occurred to me. You're having a shocking effect on me."

"That's right, blame the victim. Off you go to con an innocent old woman, while I go and get a coffee."

 

THURSDAY, 28th JANUARY, 2010

Worried about Lestrade, Mycroft ensured he arrived home in time to meet him on the doorstep.

"I see you're careful not to ask what sort of day I've had," said Lestrade sardonically, as he shrugged out of his overcoat.

"Your press conference was the lead story on all the major news channels this evening. 'Don't commit suicide'? Really, Gregory." Mycroft took Lestrade's coat and hung it carefully on a hanger while dropping his own on the chest.

"Don't start with me," said Lestrade tiredly. "I've had my DCS, the Press Office and the Assistant Chief Constable all on my back. Though whether there would be all this attention if she hadn't been an M.P... What was I supposed to tell the fuckwit of a journalist? I might've known she was working for a rag like the Daily Mail. Those press conferences are such a waste of time. I'm off to soak in the bath."

Propped against the carved stair rail, Mycroft watched Lestrade plod upstairs, looking as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Mycroft had never excelled at standing by while someone he loved was in pain and Gregory had taken these 'suicides' hard, instinct telling him there was something wrong, without the evidence with which to back that up. His frustration was in danger of getting the better of him. He seemed devoid of any sense of self-preservation where his career was concerned; his exasperated disdain for the press and their tricks was going to lead to yet more unfavourable headlines in tomorrow's tabloids, which would inevitably mean even more pressure from senior officers. The only reason Gregory hadn't been taken off the 'suicides'  was that no one else was prepared to get involved with such a toxic, high-profile case.

He could apply pressure to ensure Gregory was given public support by officers at the highest level but if he intervened Gregory would know, which would undo any possible good, which meant he was left with the unacceptable but inevitable option of doing nothing.

Mycroft pushed himself away from his support with a sigh and went up to the kitchen. After removing his jacket and waistcoat, because Gregory seemed to have a weakness for braces, he poured a large glass of Talisker, made a stack of roast beef and horseradish sandwiches, and added a selection of fruit to the tray, before taking everything up to Lestrade's bathroom.

Within a short space of time he was lounging along on the wide ledge of the bath, sharing the glass of Talisker, while he confessed that Sherlock had learnt of his interference over the Montague Street flat.

Already looking more relaxed, Lestrade gave a drowsy smile, his tilted head propped against the side of Mycroft's thigh. "You must have known that was inevitable. What did he have to say?"

"Apparently we're not talking again," said Mycroft, untroubled by the rift. He finger-combed the damp, greying hair, before beginning to massage the base of Lestrade's skull. "Sherlock's only communication has been the delivery of the bill from the removal firm he used. From its size I can only presume the firm charged danger money."

"Oh, that's fantastic. I knew you had talented fingers but... Mmn, a bit to the left," mumbled Lestrade, almost purring.

His eyes opened, the muscles of his face already relaxing. "I reckon that bill let you down lightly. You've visited Sherlock's flat. Would you want to touch anything?"

"I never have yet. Is he assisting with any of your cases?" asked Mycroft delicately.

"Only texting every member of the press during the conference to tell them I'm wrong at regular intervals."

"Oh, God," said Mycroft with foreboding, which drew another ghost of a grin from Lestrade.

"Don't fret. I haven't murdered him yet. So, is he going to move into Baker Street - despite your meddling?"

"Such a harsh way of looking at it," murmured Mycroft. "His possessions are in, so I presume he's followed them. He's also looking for a flatmate. Although I don't know that officially."

"And are you planning to interfere again?"

"Define interfere," said Mycroft with deliberate evasion.

This time the smile reached Lestrade's eyes. "Pass that plate over, I think I might be hungry after all. You know, if Sherlock ever murders you, it could be argued he had provocation."

"True. But while he's railing at me, at least it's keeping his boredom at bay," said Mycroft serenely.

　

 

Later, when he had been snuggled up in bed bedside Mycroft for some time, Lestrade finally abandoned the pretence of being asleep.

"Thanks for not intervening after the press conference," he said into the darkness, his breath a warm, damp stirring against the nape of Mycroft neck.

"I thought about it," Mycroft admitted, covering the hand that was resting against his navel.

"But you knew it was the last thing I'd want and you put me first. So, thank you."

Mycroft linked their fingers. "Is this your subtle way of saying you want to warm your cold feet on me?"

"Oh, God, can I?" said Lestrade with gratitude. "I thought the bath would warm me up but..."

"Go ahead," sighed Mycroft, as if he wouldn't do that and a great deal more to keep Gregory safe and happy.

 

FRIDAY, 29TH JANUARY, 2010

By mid-afternoon Mycroft had managed to keep himself busy enough not to read the pile of daily newspapers sitting on the edge of the conference table. Even the broadsheets had Gregory on their front page. The tabloids...

Something would have to be done about the tabloids.

He was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the rain as he drank his tea, when David knocked and entered.

"Good afternoon," said Mycroft, turning with a faint smile. "What's my brother done now?" he added with resignation.

"How did you know it's about your brother?"

"A sense of inevitability. Plus, I'm all too familiar with your expression where Sherlock is concerned. Take a seat. Tea?"

"I've just had one. This morning he was introduced to a potential flatmate, another doctor."

"Inevitably," sighed Mycroft. "Working at Barts again?"

"Not this time. Doctor John H. Watson qualified as a GP but after nearly five years working as a locum he upped and joined the army. He was shot while he and a medical team he'd put together were visiting an outlying village to provide immunisation shots and basic medical care. While the village elders had welcomed the idea, the soldiers guarding the medical team drew the attention of insurgents. There were several fatalities in the ensuing gun battle - five Afghans, two of them children, and a lance corporal. There were a thirty two casualties, mainly women and children and five insurgents. It wasn't the first time Watson had taken teams out. His CO thought he was going stir-crazy in camp, despite various 'excitements' -  including the time the camp came under attack. He described him as the man you want beside you in a crisis. Nothing flashy about him, but steady as a rock. That was then, of course.

"Watson was invalided out and now walks with a cane. He's just finished physiotherapy for his shoulder wound but still has an intermittent tremor in his left hand. He's seeing a therapist for PTSD."

Mycroft grimaced and returned to his desk. "Wonderful. He can have a PTSD blackout and shoot Sherlock while he's asleep. Do we have the records from the therapist?"

David handed over a memory stick. "They just came in."

"Excellent."

Not for the first time, David marvelled at the speed with which Mycroft processed information, before he sat motionless, staring into the middle distance, his steepled fingers in front of his mouth.

Mindful of the stack of work awaiting him, David finally risked breaking the silence. "Shall I book the usual restaurant?"

Mycroft looked up with that disconcertingly direct stare of his. "Not in this instance.  I'll be extremely surprised if Watson's suffering from PTSD. It's my opinion that he might appreciate a little drama in his mundane existence as a civilian. Time to test his nerve. If he's considering moving in with Sherlock he'll need to be something out of the ordinary and the man described in this - " he made a dismissive gesture toward the monitor of his laptop " - would bore Sherlock to death in a week. My meeting tomorrow should be over by eight thirty. Is the warehouse still available?"

David paused to check on his tablet. "Yes, sir. But Balasha isn't going to want you stuck in there with an ex-army captain who might be suffering from PTSD. Jane managed a quick recce of Watson's current place. He has a loaded SIG Sauer stashed away."

"Does he indeed." Mycroft looked interested but not surprised. "How did he manage to smuggle his service revolver out of Afghanistan?"

"We're still checking whether it is his. According to his record, Watson was - still might be for all we know - quite a marksman. You don't seem surprised, sir."

"Were you?" countered Mycroft.

"Not by that time," David admitted.

"Do you think Watson's dangerous?"

"I believe he could be. But there's absolutely no history of physical violence. And his record's clean, both in the army and as a civilian."

Mycroft nodded again. "I definitely need to meet him."

"Balasha's not going to be happy about that - particularly if you're planning to kidnap him first," pursued David, without much hope.

"I don't suppose she will," agreed Mycroft affably. "Fortunately, she works for me, not the other way around. Besides, it's Alice's birthday tomorrow, so you'll be wining and dining your wife rather than on duty to suffer the fall-out, which is your only concern."

"Not my only one," said David, with an unapologetic grin. "You'd be sadly missed if Watson shot you."

Mycroft gave a faint smile of acknowledgement. "Go away. Excellent work getting so much on Watson in such a short space of time. Maintain low level surveillance until further notice."

 

SATURDAY, 30TH JANUARY - SUNDAY 1ST FEBRUARY, 2010

Balasha was busy checking Mycroft's diary on her BlackBerry when she grimaced, gave a theatrical groan and glared at her employer, who was reading without enthusiasm the latest report from North Korea.

"Sir, you can't kidnap a member of the public just because you're bored."

"Actually, in the interests of accuracy, I can," Mycroft pointed out, giving her the blandest of smiles.

"That's hardly the point, is it."

"You must admit, that work, while prolific, has been particularly tedious since I got back from my holiday." Mycroft was aware he was perilously close to a whine.

"And that's an excuse for kidnap, intimidation and bribery?" said Balasha, severe because someone had to be.

Mycroft shrugged. "That's what this evening is intended to discover. Watson is meeting Sherlock at Baker Street at seven. No doubt Watson will be free some time after that. I'd like you to act as his escort. I'd value your opinion of him."

Balasha looked sceptical.

"Truly."

"Ten pounds says he makes a move on me."

"You don't think he might be a trifle preoccupied?"

Balasha took her time crossing her long legs.

"Wasted on me. Make it twenty pounds," added Mycroft, knowing her competitive desire to win would distract her from further nagging. Not that she wasn't right, of course. But he was entitled to some enjoyment in his work.

And he was _bored_.

To the point where twice this week he'd indulged in afternoon tea at the Diogenes Club, which would play havoc with his attempt to lose those holiday pounds.

 

　

As soon as Lestrade received the call about the fourth 'suicide', he checked Sherlock's whereabouts with Mycroft, then went straight to Baker Street to ask Sherlock for help. He was prepared to beg if need be, desperate to avoid more deaths. And despite Sherlock's  insults since he'd arrived at Brixton, he couldn't regret the decision.

His arms defensively folded while he listened to Sherlock deduce at lightning speed, Lestrade tried to control his expression. If you wanted any sense of inadequacy to be intensified, there was no one like Sherlock for doing the job. But if it meant they solved these fucking 'suicides' he'd put up with every insult Sherlock could throw at him and his team - well, Anderson. But then, in all fairness, Anderson could be a real tosser.

They had four bodies now. If he'd been sharper perhaps...

Lestrade stopped that thought in its tracks because self-indulgence helped no one.

Though quite who this bloke Sherlock had brought along with him tonight might be was a mystery. Dr Watson and Sherlock had obviously known one another for a while, which was odd, as Sherlock had never given any sign of having a friend up until now. Lestrade made a mental note to mention Watson to Mycroft when he had time, because it couldn't hurt to check out the doctor. At least he hoped he really was a doctor of medicine.

All too aware of time passing, Lestrade watched Sherlock rush out of the house with a mounting sense of frustration, his mouth compressed in a thin line after hearing Sherlock pick out all the details he'd missed. Things he would never have spotted in a million years.

And it smarted.

The moments between hearing Sherlock's deductions and admitting, even to himself, the unpalatable fact that they were spot on were always tricky, not least because of his inner struggle not to thump Sherlock. Lestrade did his best to subdue his inconvenient ego because it was the result that mattered, not the fact that yet again he had been humiliated in front of his team. His professional pride in tatters, he plastered on a positive expression as he set them to work on the mundane details that were beneath Sherlock's notice.

　

 

His mood greatly improved after his first meal in fourteen hours, Lestrade strolled into the Incident Room as various members of his team were closing down their computers, or pulling on overcoats, ready to go home for what little was left of the evening.

"I know it's late but I'm looking for six volunteers for a drugs bust," he announced, rocking on his heels.

"That should be the Drugs Squad," said Donovan, eyeing him with suspicion. It wasn't often you saw Lestrade looking so pleased with himself.

"I have two words for you: Sherlock Holmes."

She was the first one to step forward, quickly followed by everyone else in the room.

"That's what I like to see, enthusiasm," said Lestrade cheerfully.

He selected half a dozen officers, pointing out to the rejects that too many people would have the look of a lynch mob, while privately hoping he wasn't making a huge mistake. But Sherlock would have the pink suitcase by now, and if he hadn't learnt that he couldn't withhold evidence, he needed to be reminded - and the odds were his side-kick had no idea what he was getting into. Besides, unless Sherlock had changed his hiding place, any stash was safe enough from Anderson, though he'd park himself on the chair in question, just in case.

　

 

After strolling out of Watson's sight, Mycroft paused to watch the car taking him home drive out of the warehouse. He ignored his own car to remain standing with his weight propped on his umbrella, listening to the sound of water dripping somewhere to his left. Thirty or so yards to his right a fluorescent light was flickering, sending shadows bouncing around an already eerie space. There was an unpleasant smell of rusting equipment, stagnant water and stale air; an altogether threatening venue, quite apart from the demonstration of power which had brought Watson here.

And the former army doctor hadn't turned a hair.

There had been no sign of increased respiration, or skin temperature, and Watson's hand had been steady as a rock. He hadn't even risen to that gibe about bravery - in fact, he'd been self-possessed to an unusual degree. He had maintained eye contact throughout, a faint, quizzical contempt apparent, despite his lack of advantage. Nor had he displayed any propensity for physical violence - which suggested great confidence in his own abilities, despite his physical injuries.

Mycroft pursed his lips. An inconspicuous, ultimately forgettable man, despite his military bearing and appalling clothes sense, John Watson seemed an unlikely match for Sherlock.

And yet. There was something familiar about that still, calm centre. It was there in David, Balasha. There in all his best people. It was there in Gregory, too.

Of course, there was no guarantee that Watson had refused the bribe out of anything but bloody-mindedness, but he didn't believe that was the case and that kind of loyalty was invaluable. If it was real.

He wondered what Gregory had made of Watson, while knowing he couldn't ask. It would look like interference and Sherlock was causing Gregory enough difficulties as it was.

Mycroft fished in his pocket to retrieve his vibrating phone and gave a satisfied nod when he saw the text from Balasha.

'Watson stopped at flat to retrieve hand gun.'

It was all rather satisfactory - provided Watson wasn't planning to shoot Sherlock, of course. Anyway, he'd taken steps to keep an eye on the doctor.

Quite apart from the political posturing, which had been going on since the death of the MP, Beth Davenport, the killer needed to be stopped. The British public loved to watch TV programmes about serial killers, even to read crime novels about them, but in real life they were apt to become hysterical when such murderers were active and he - because statistically it was likely to be a he, despite the use of poison - had now murdered four people.

His phone rang as he finally headed for his car.

"You owe me twenty pounds," Balasha said.

"I always under-estimate you. Have we succeeded in piquing the doctor's interest, do you think?"

"Well, I have."

"Do try to cultivate a little modesty," Mycroft begged.

"I'm surprised no one's tried to recruit Watson," she said frankly.

"I rather suspect my brother may have already done so."

"But according to Dr Stamford - "

"According to Dr Stamford, Sherlock unrolled John Watson's life out in front of him - the doctor obviously has a weakness for such parlour tricks."

"Watson's an interesting man. Not at all what you'd expect from his record," said Balasha.

"I beg to differ. The clues are in his record. He couldn't tolerate the boredom of general practice, so he joined the army. Once at Camp Bastion he took every opportunity to leave the relative safety of base camp. He's an adrenalin junkie who's in danger of sinking into depression for lack of stimulation."

"Was that your excuse for kidnapping him?" enquired Balasha dryly.

Mycroft gave a sigh of the misunderstood and said patiently, "You may recall that Watson took very little persuasion to get in the car. He's told his potential flatmate has a mysterious nemesis, powerful enough to control CCTV cameras and kidnap him and instead of backing off, he strengthens his bond with Sherlock."

"If you say so, sir," Balasha said demurely.

"Ring off and go and annoy someone else. I'm in the mood to be humoured."

"There's not much likelihood of that tonight, I'm afraid. The Joint Intelligence Committee meeting has been rescheduled for ten thirty this evening. Sir Neil has to fly out to Canada for a family funeral tomorrow morning."

"What? Another one? How many parents has he?"

"As many as necessary, I suspect."

　

 

In no mood to have his time wasted, Mycroft ensured the meeting was concluded in  under two hours.

He was heading home, just before one in the morning, when the call came in that Sherlock had disappeared with a taxi driver, thought to be the serial killer.

After a nerve-wracking few minutes his people tracked the taxi and Mycroft's car headed at top speed for the Roland-Kerr Further Education College. En route, he received a text from Lestrade. 'Sherlock safe. Kidnapper dead.'

By the time Mycroft arrived the college grounds were swarming with police and SOCOs. His car discreetly parked amidst police vehicles, Mycroft got out and propped himself on the bonnet. He imperceptibly relaxed when he saw Sherlock, full of nervy energy, perched on the entrance to an ambulance, an orange blanket around his shoulders. As he watched, Gregory walked over to Sherlock. While Gregory had his back to him, Mycroft could read Sherlock's lips well enough to get the gist of what he was saying. He was obviously in shock because he was less coherent than usual, although he steadied under Gregory's questioning.

A movement caught Mycroft's eye in time to see John Watson come to a halt behind the police tape, looking as calm and composed as he had the previous day.

The faintest drift of Jo Malone's Dark Amber and Ginger Lily perfume signalled Balasha's arrival to Mycroft's left.

"So the suicides _were_ murders," she murmured. "But who killed - ? Ah, the doctor?"

"It would appear so." Mycroft's attention was back on his brother. "The kidnapper?"

"The taxi driver, Jeff Hope, identified by his cab license. Shot dead by an unknown marksman, who just happened to be in the right place at the right time," she added colourlessly.

"Just so," murmured Mycroft.

Still watching Sherlock, Mycroft saw the moment he noticed John Watson, his expression nakedly revealing to anyone who knew him as he abruptly stopped describing the  shooter, making a feeble excuse. And because he was obviously worried about Sherlock's near brush with death, Gregory allowed him to get away with it.

It was ease itself to intercept Sherlock and Watson before they left the grounds.

Mycroft let Sherlock's indiscretion about his own role in the affairs of state pass because, while Sherlock would deny it hotly, he was experiencing a small degree of the shock he had claimed to be suffering from. He watched Sherlock and Watson walk off, giggling together like schoolboys, so very pleased with themselves and each other and was aware of a lurching sense of loss.

It was ridiculous to feel excluded from Sherlock's life. He'd never been welcome there, so it wasn't as if he was losing anything. Besides, he had wanted Sherlock to find an emotional connection to someone. He'd just failed to anticipate his own sense of loss as the strings which had bound them together for so many years loosened and fell away unregarded by the brother he had tried to guard for so many years.

His expression bleak, Mycroft remained where he was until the two men were out of his line of vision. Eventually, awareness of the penetrating cold returned him to the warmth of his car.

The SOCOs would be processing the scene throughout the night. It wouldn't take them long to find the room John Watson had occupied when he shot Hope. Of course, in doing so he might well have saved Sherlock's life. From Watson's calm demeanour when he had caught up with Sherlock one would never suspect he had just killed a man. It had been an impressive shot, through two lots of glass, with a handgun.

When Sherlock realised the identity of his rescuer he had looked... Mycroft pursed his lips. He had never seen Sherlock look so thrilled with another human being who wasn't dead. Somehow, in the just over twenty four hours since they had met, a connection had formed between Sherlock and Watson because, as incredible as it seemed, John Watson was equally enthralled with Sherlock.

Which would all be quite splendid, if only he could be certain Watson wasn't a sociopath.

It was difficult to come to a decision without the full facts. Without enthusiasm for the forthcoming conversation, Mycroft fished out his phone and called his brother.

"Piss off. I'm eating and you'll take away my appetite," snapped Sherlock.

"It you'd rather Dr Watson wasn't charged with killing Hope I suggest you stop posturing and give me a full report of what transpired," Mycroft said mildly.

"But - "

"Yes, I'm sure an excellent case could be made about the shooting but do you really want the ensuing investigation and publicity to clog up your lives for the next few months?" Mycroft enquired prosaically.

"Ah. Well, in that case."

It took some time to ensure he had the full story. Mycroft slipped the phone back in his pocket and turned to Balasha; the tip of her nose had turned an unattractive shade of puce.

"We'll be taking over this investigation," Mycroft told her. "There's the suggestion of a link to 'Arty'. The cab driver was paid for each murder he committed by a man called 'Moriarty'. I want him found. Oh, and make sure Hope's body is taken to Barts. I'd like Dr Hooper to perform the autopsy. And if I'm not mistaken, that's his body on the point of departure, so you'll need to get a move on. I'm going home to bed," he added blandly.

"Do you want me to tell DI Lestrade he's losing the case?" she asked, without enthusiasm.

"Certainly not. What?" added Mycroft, for once unable to read her expression.

She hesitated, then clearly thought the better of what she had been about to say. "Nothing, sir. Goodnight."

　

 

While Lestrade made every effort to be quiet as he slid into bed, just before four in the morning, he immediately realised Mycroft was awake.

"I suppose I've got you to thank for the call I had from my DCS forty minutes ago.  How far up the food chain did the order go?" Lestrade demanded.

"The very top." Mycroft rolled onto his back.

They lay side by side like two effigies, and with about as much warmth between them.

"It didn't occur to you to tell me yourself?" asked Lestrade eventually, with the same disconcerting flat note to his voice.

"Of course it did," said Mycroft with guilt-induced irritation. "But we agreed that we wouldn't allow any conflict between our jobs to interfere with our private lives, so I did what I would have done had the officer in charge been anyone but you. This is unlikely to be the last time our professional lives cross paths in a way you find unpalatable."

" _Unpalatable_. Good word that," said Lestrade, a roughened edge to his voice despite his attempt at restraint.

Mycroft resisted the temptation to put on the light, wary of what he might see. "We  agreed I wouldn't treat you any differently where work was concerned," he pointed out, when some time passed without Lestrade saying anything more.

"I remember. Only - " Lestrade gave a weighty sigh. "I suppose I hoped that just for once you'd be the one doing the compromising."

"If I could compromise - "

Lestrade snorted. "Given that I know you do whatever you want, best not to use that argument with me. So now I've been shown to be incapable in front of my entire team, am I also expected to pretend I don't know who shot Hope?"

"Ah." Mycroft braced himself for storms.

Lestrade abruptly sat up, punched his pillows into submission behind his shoulders and switched on the bedside lamp. "Is Watson one of your people?" he demanded, when they had both stopped squinting.

"No."

"Then why the fuck are you protecting him?"

"I'm not sure," Mycroft admitted, which successfully side-tracked Lestrade.

"Really?"

Mycroft nodded. "I trust him. Which is ridiculous. Besides which, I'm not supposed to rely on gut instinct in my job."

"You did with me," said Lestrade, in a slightly warmer tone.

"You - you're a force of bloody nature," sighed Mycroft, because he still found it difficult to credit how Gregory had walked through his every defence.

But Lestrade wasn't to be distracted. "Sherlock came _that_ close to identifying Watson to me before he realised and clammed up. I didn't know he had any friends."

"I'm the closest thing to one that he has. He and Watson only met yesterday," added Mycroft dryly.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "That's a turn up for the books. Watching them together, I assumed they'd known one another for years."

"So would I, if I didn't know better."

"Still, we can't have doctors going around killing people."

"He saved Sherlock's life," Mycroft said at once.

"Actually, he didn't. The gun was a replica, a novelty piece that was really a lighter. Which Sherlock would have spotted immediately, unlike the poor sods, who Hope terrorised into taking that bloody pill. He might have been a sick fuck but that doesn't give Watson the right to kill him. You'll keep an eye on Watson?"

Mycroft looked pained.

"Don't get snotty with me," Lestrade advised him as he wriggled a bit closer. "I'm still working on forgiving you for taking away my case. Not that I would have been able to solve it without Sherlock," he added with a mixture of frustration and irritation.

Mycroft exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing, before he said: "What I wouldn't tell an officer in charge, and am only telling you in your private capacity..."

Lestrade eased around the better to direct his stare. "As what, your - ?"

"I'm serious, Gregory. This has to be unofficial."

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Okay."

"I called Sherlock. Fortunately he still recognises the times when only the truth will serve. Before the cab driver died, he told Sherlock he was being paid to murder random individuals by someone called Moriarty."

Lestrade sat up, looking ridiculously alert for a man who'd enjoyed so little sleep in the last twenty four hours. 'Arty' himself?"

"It seems likely."

"I suppose there's no chance Sherlock got a description?"

"Hope died before he could give one."

"Bugger," said Lestrade without heat. "Still, it's more than we had before. I've had enough of this bastard playing games. Is this why you've taken over the case?"

Mycroft nodded. "It occurred to me that a man who likes playing games, and who has fingers in all kinds of high-level criminal pies, is likely to have a number of contacts, some of whom are probably at a senior level in government and the judicial system."

"Including the police," recognised Lestrade grimly. "I'll - "

"Forget this conversation ever took place. Leave that to us. Please."

Lestrade opened his mouth and closed it again when he recognised Mycroft's anxiety was genuine. "If I get a whisper of anything I'll let you know."

"But you won't search it out?"

"No," sighed Lestrade, because with the Met.'s record of corruption to the highest level, he couldn't take the moral high ground.

"Thank you."

"You think Moriarty is that dangerous?"

"I don't know if he's one person or ten. But what little we do know suggests danger and a wide sphere of influence. To what purpose remains to be seen."

"What is it?" queried Lestrade, when he caught Mycroft watching him when he thought himself unobserved.

Mycroft immediately looked down, concentrating on the portion of sheet he had been pleating between his fingers. "I should have contacted you about taking over the case myself, shouldn't I?"

"That's not what we agreed."

"Nevertheless. I got it wrong again."

Lestrade pulled a face. "Not necessarily," he admitted. "If you had, I'd've probably blown your cover in front of my team, yelling down the phone at you. I'm inclined to be territorial about my cases," he added wryly.

Mycroft looked up at that. "You understand we're only taking over the case because of the link to 'Arty'? It's no reflection on your work or that of your team?"

"And it has the added advantage that you can easily bury what John Watson did."

"It's unlikely that he would be convicted."

Lestrade let that evasion pass. "We'll never know, will we. You're right but I can't say I like the fact Watson was so comfortable about killing a bloke - even scum like Hope. I don't expect any better from Sherlock, but Watson's a doctor."

"And a pragmatist. Hope murdered four people for money - and because he could. Because he enjoyed his power over them and he would have done the same to Sherlock."

"I know," sighed Lestrade. "Part of the reason I'm so... You taking the case has made life easier for me. Though I do have one question. You're happy to leave Sherlock at the mercy of such an efficient killer?"

"I'll make some tea," said Mycroft, sliding from the bed.

　

 

At six a.m. Lestrade abandoned the idea that he was going to get any sleep and went into his bathroom.

Duly shaved, he started the shower; an over-generous application of shower gel left him smothered in foam and he muttered irritably under his breath as he tried to get rid of the excess.

"Do you need to go into work?" asked Mycroft, from where he was propped against the edge of the shower stall, water splashing the bottom of his silk dressing gown.

Lestrade paused, a foamy hand stuck under the armpit he had been washing. "I suppose I don't, in the circumstances. I gave my team the morning off."

"I was wrong," Mycroft said abruptly. Despite his casual pose, there was nothing relaxed about his expression.

Water cascading over his face, Lestrade stepped away from the powerful jets, bubbles sliding down his torso to slide from the jut of his rump and the tip of his sturdy cock. "About what?"

"Imagining we could ignore the possible conflicts between our jobs. I know what I said. I was an idiot. I should have told you myself. Should it happen again, I will. I'm sorry it didn't occur to me to do so this time."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why did you take over this case? Is it so important to keep Moriarty, or Arty, or whatever the bastard's real name is, out of the public eye?"

"Until we know his identity, and what his objective is, I believe so."

Lestrade looked up abruptly, his brown eyes shrewd. "So you didn't want to take over the case to protect Sherlock's new playmate?"

Mycroft wanted to lie so badly it made his teeth ache. "I won't deny it would be more convenient if Dr Watson doesn't face prosecution."

"Instinct again?" Lestrade sounded intrigued rather than irritable.

"Don't rub it in."

"If it's any comfort I told Watson Sherlock was already a great man, and that if we were lucky he might turn into a good man," volunteered Lestrade, equally wry.

"You said that? About Sherlock?" From the smile that lit Mycroft's face anyone would have thought he was the one who had received the compliment. 

"No need to go on. Though I meant it," Lestrade added. "And despite all the evidence to the contrary, I'm inclined to trust Watson, too. But you won't mind if I keep an eye on him for a bit - just in case we're both losing our minds."

Mycroft stepped forward, placing his hands on Lestrade's soapy hips before he kissed him chastely on his wet cheek. "You are the most generous human being I've ever met. Rinse off and come back to bed. We're both exhausted."

But because Mycroft still looked faintly anxious, Lestrade kissed him back, not at all chastely.

"Relax, we're good," he murmured, just before he yanked Mycroft into the shower and under the flow of water, kissing away his splutter of protest.

 

SATURDAY, 6th FEBRUARY 2010

Mycroft paused, unnoticed as yet, as he watched John Watson decide between cushioned and velvet toilet paper, although he would have thought anything would be preferable to army issue.  He strolled after the doctor as he selected bread and eggs before moving to the aisle of Tescos that sold jam.

"You'll want a jar of bitter Dundee marmalade, or honey," said Mycroft helpfully, from where he stood, unnoticed, at Watson's shoulder. "When Sherlock deigns to eat breakfast, they are all he'll have on his toast."

Watson twitched, stilled and turned with some deliberation. "Oh, it's you," he said without enthusiasm. He added the most expensive jar of strawberry jam, then, taking the line of least resistance, the jars Mycroft had indicated. 

"What brand of tea?" Watson asked casually, heading down the aisle.

"Sherlock will drink any muck."

"A man after my own heart. Biscuits?"

"Not chocolate. Shortbread, or ginger." Mycroft set a packet of the most expensive of each in the basket Watson held before they headed down the next aisle.

"D'you frequent supermarkets often?" Watson added a litre of whole milk, a cholesterol lowering spread and some Wensleydale cheese, before heading for the checkout, grabbing a bag of eating apples on the way.

"More often than I anticipated."

"This is an improvement on your last venue," Watson said, as he set the last item on the conveyer belt at the checkout.

"Indeed." Mycroft shook out a carrier bag and began to pack with a speedy efficiency.

"I suppose there's no hope that Sherlock's this useful to have around?" said Watson, eyeing the sight with mild disbelief.

"None whatsoever." Mycroft handed the cashier his credit card. "My car is outside. There are just a few questions more."

"About what?" said Watson, picking up all the bags.

"The shooting," said Mycroft, once they had emerged onto the street, where his black car was waiting. "In case you were wondering, there will be no case made against you for the shooting of Hope."

"Who?"

"Must we waste time on this ridiculous charade?" complained Mycroft mildly, as he held open the rear door of the car. "The case is no longer being handled by the police. Fortunately for you. The SOCOs had already found your DNA and fingerprints in the room where the shooting took place."

"There must be some mistake," said Watson, in the steady reliable tone which had come in useful so many times in the past. "By the time I arrived, it was all over."

"No mistake, I assure you. However, there's always the worrying possibility that evidence will be lost, or contaminated. Accidents will happen," murmured Mycroft in his silkiest voice.

Watson stopped pretending to look out the window.

"The cab driver was shot by a Sig Sauer. Not your army issue weapon, fortunately - that was handed in. I trust you were cautious when you acquired the gun currently hidden under your bed in Baker Street. No doubt Sherlock prompted you to clean it. Don't look so surprised," Mycroft added, when that rated a faint twitch of an eyebrow, "your skill as a marksman is on record. One can only hope there is no CCTV footage of the incident at the college."

"Over which you have so much control," said Watson, with no sign of concern. "Was there CCTV footage?"

"My dear doctor, how should I know? I am merely a humble civil servant, who occupies a minor position at the Department of Transport."

"That's not what Sherlock said."

"My brother says a lot of things. Few of them, as you're doubtless discovering, will include the common courtesies of life."

"What do you want of me?" Watson asked calmly.

"A truthful answer to one question."

Watson eyed him thoughtfully, obviously under the illusion he had a choice in the matter. "Okay," he said, in the tone of one conferring a great favour.

"Too kind. Was Sherlock really going to swallow that pill?"

After a moment, Watson nodded. "He got so caught up in the thought of outwitting the cabbie that he didn't think it through."

"He does that a lot," offered Mycroft, in the slightly bored voice of one discussing the weather. "As you'll discover, should you decide to continue to share a flat with my brother."

"I have. Am," corrected Watson.

"I suppose a week is more than the others managed," said Mycroft languidly. "There's just one more thing," he added, making no attempt to disguise the fact he was enjoying himself.

"Yes?" said Watson, his voice a little tighter than before.

"No need to sound so anxious, I assure you. Your gun. Don't let Sherlock use it. He's a poor shot and inclined to be...unreliable. It would be inconvenient if a member of the public was to be accidentally shot. Worse still if it was deliberate, of course," added Mycroft, after a moment's reflection.

While obviously not on a par with a Holmes, Watson got there in the end. "What gun?" he asked.

"Just so. Oh, your blog. Exercise discretion, or it will be exercised for you."

"Can you do that?" Watson sounded no more than curious.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Course you can," Watson sighed. "And to think when I was a kid I used to wish I had a big brother."

"As did I," said Mycroft, for once telling the unvarnished truth.

Before Watson could make the tactless comment which was undoubtedly hovering, the car drew to a halt outside 221B.

"Before you go, be kind enough to give this to my brother." Mycroft fished in a pocket and produced a small, round package, neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

"What is it?" asked Watson with suspicion. He made no attempt to take it.

"What a vivid imagination you have," murmured Mycroft with amusement. "Sherlock's your man for exotic poisons. It's only rosin."

"Rosin?"

"For the bow of Sherlock's violin."

"Oh."

"Don't look so disappointed." Mycroft consulted his pocket watch. "Well, delightful as this meeting as been, I really must be going. Goodbye, John."

"Are we on first name terms already?" Watson paused to ask.

"Why not? After all, we have a common interest."

The sandy eyebrows drew together. "We do?"

"Sherlock's well-being," said Mycroft simply.

"Point," nodded Watson. He scrambled from the car in an ungainly fashion, trailing bags of shopping.

Mycroft saw the twitch of the curtain in the window of Sherlock's flat and gave a satisfied nod to himself.

 

FRIDAY, 19TH FEBRUARY 2010

Lestrade ran up the stairs inside 221B, after successfully reassuring Mrs Hudson that this wasn't another drugs bust. He thumped briefly on the door of Sherlock's flat, to give him time to hide anything incriminating, then opened it. His smile faded when he found himself face to face with a cardiganed John Watson.

"Sherlock's in the bath. And you can't barge in here without a warrant." Without drama, Watson blocked the way into the sitting room, his expression stonily unwelcoming.

That protectiveness meeting with his approval, Lestrade propped one shoulder against the door jamb, his hands in his pockets. "Relax, doctor. I only make a drugs bust when there's a full moon."

"Lestrade! You have a case?" Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in an expensive smelling cloud of steam. "John, let him in. He might actually have something interesting to say."

"No case. Or nothing worthy of you," said Lestrade dryly as he wandered into the room. While his manner was casual, he missed few details. The sitting room still wasn't what any reasonable person would call tidy, but this was more the comfortable clutter of men with a number of interests, rather than the disgusting mess he'd got used to smelling in Montague Street. Here there was only the memory of toast and tea on the air, now that the scent of Sherlock's bath had dissipated.

"Have you taken the eyeballs out of the microwave yet?" asked Lestrade, one thought leading to another.

"I got rid of them," said Watson. "Tea? Don't worry, I'm making it."

Lestrade followed him into the kitchen. The table was still loaded with Sherlock's experiments and a brief glance at the open fridge when Watson took out the milk made him wish he hadn't.

"Milk?" said Watson, with the placidity of a man used to organs floating in dubious coloured liquid. "It's better than it looks. Those specimen jars are airtight."

"I'll pass," said Lestrade. "Dear God. Do you actually eat food in here?"

"Sherlock and I have come to an arrangement."

"Yeah? And does he stick to it?"

"Occasionally," said Watson, with the glimmer of a smile. He took two mugs from a cupboard, teabags from another.

"You're here to stay then?"

Watson shot him a quick, assessing glance. "Yep."

"In that case you'd better call me Greg when I'm off-duty." He held out his hand.

"I'm John. Sherlock says you're okay," allowed Watson, who had obviously not made up his mind but he shook Lestrade's hand with a brief, firm grip.

"I did not," called Sherlock. "I said he wasn't as stupid as most policemen."

"Yeah?" said Lestrade sceptically, but he looked pleased.

"Never mind that," said Sherlock impatiently. "Why are you here if you don't have work for me?"

"The sunshine of your smile. And the fact that a DCI I can vouch for has a tricky murder. So long as it's on the QT he's agreed to let you in on it. Don't piss him around, he's not as sweet-tempered as me," added Lestrade dryly.

Sherlock held out his hand for the mug Watson was carrying. "Why would I be interested?"

"It's a locked room murder. No forensics, or false ceilings, floors, or walls. No gap under the only door. No chimney. And it was on the second floor."

"Windows?"

"Locked."

Sherlock gave a sniff of would-be disdain, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. "Where?"

"Lincolnshire."

"John, check the train times while I pack," commanded Sherlock, tea forgotten as he disappeared into his bedroom.

"Text me the train you'll be on and a taxi will be waiting for you," said Lestrade to Watson, who was hunched over his laptop. "There's no point sending a police car. Sherlock won't use one. Oh, and leave the gun at home," he added.

That got Watson's attention.

"If you had one, of course," said Lestrade, at his most bland.

"Have you met Sherlock's brother?" asked Watson.

"Once or twice," said Lestrade, straight-faced. But it was good to know Sherlock was respecting Mycroft's privacy. On the other hand, it might just be because he'd deleted the information as being of no interest.

He was whistling as he headed out onto the street. Now DCI Stratton would owe him a favour, Mycroft could stop worrying about Sherlock, and he could enjoy a few days peace.

Unless Sherlock fucked up, of course.

 

SATURDAY, 20th FEBRUARY 2010

"You're not looking very enthusiastic considering you've got the weekend off. You have still got it off?" checked Lestrade.

"Except for this morning. A couple of hours on the firing range isn't my idea of - " Mycroft stopped and gave Lestrade a considering look. "You should come with me."

"I don't like guns."

"Why would you? You were shot with one. But being associated with me puts you in the firing line."

"Associated?"

"The fact we're lovers," amended Mycroft, humouring him. "I just think it would help if you were capable of hitting what you aimed at."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You've seen my file."

"Well, of course I have. You knew that."

"But not that you'd seen my scores on the range. They were pretty humiliating," remembered Lestrade, rubbing his chin.

"They were very humiliating," corrected Mycroft, dodging the pinch to his backside. "Which is why I'm suggesting you accompany me to the range."

"Won't me being there compromise you with your people? Besides, it's our first free time together for - "

"We'll be together. Isn't that the most important thing?" said Mycroft soulfully.

"Oh, that was low, even by your standards."

"I know," admitting Mycroft smugly. "Did it work?"

Lestrade gave a despondent sigh. "Doesn't it always? And I _know_ you're playing me. Two hours only. Then we're off to Borough Market to fossick the delis for those salted olives we both like."

　

 

Mycroft was still smiling around the edges when Lestrade drove them away from the training centre, declaring he wasn't prepared to have Fatima smirking at him the whole time, word about his showing on the firing range having been quick to spread.

"If you were hoping to be inconspicuous, you failed miserably," Mycroft murmured. "Did I forget to mention you were supposed to hit your target, not mine?"

Lestrade gave him the finger before returning his attention to negotiating Hyde Park Corner. "I warned the instructor that I wasn't very good."

"And now he believes you. You'll go back?"

"Only if we can swim afterwards. We could both use the exercise and that pool looked amazing. You can swim?" Lestrade, added, alerted by the quality of the silence.

"In a manner of speaking."

"Which obviously means no. It's okay. I'll teach you."

"I'm not athletic."

"Watch me reel back in shock. Nor am I. But everyone should know how to swim. And your people needn't know you can't because you don't need guarding in the pool, And you can arrange for us to have it to ourselves. Deal?"

Mycroft gave a grudging nod and Lestrade had the sense not to gloat.

 

THURSDAY, 11TH MARCH, 2010

Stretched along the sofa, half-covered in police files, Lestrade looked up when Mycroft came into the family room.

"You're home early. Excellent." Lestrade automatically raised his face for Mycroft's kiss. "Mmn, breath mints. What've you been eating for lunch?"

"Asparagus."

Lestrade pulled a face. "Then I can tell you what you won't be getting for the next twenty four hours. Are you hungry?"

"Not yet."

"Good, then I don't need to move."

"I cook," said Mycroft with a trace of indignation that was bolstered by guilt.

"Course you do," soothed, Lestrade, grinning.

"You have a new case?" Mycroft gestured to all the files as he unlaced his shoes, shed his jacket and tie and settled on the other end of the sofa; Lestrade shifted across to leave him more room.

"Not yet, but I'm working on it." Lestrade slipped his bare feet between Mycroft''s just parted thighs, toes nudging his balls in a friendly fashion.

The cares of the day sliding away, Mycroft enjoyed the range of expressions crossing Lestrade's face as he skimmed the last file, lingering discontent suggesting the review wasn't going well. He was in danger of dozing off when Lestrade said:

"Mycroft, if I wanted to fit someone up, could you help?"

A look of pure pleasure on his face, Mycroft sat up. "And this is why you are a source of constant delight to me."

"I wish you weren't looking so proud of me," complained Lestrade, half-laughing, half-serious.

"You can't have it both ways," Mycroft pointed out, batting away the cushion tossed at him. "What's the problem?"

"We gave a group of blokes a DNA test - to eliminate them from our enquiries. The thing is, they gave it on the understanding that's all it's used for. One sample came up in seven unsolved sexual assaults against men, going back eleven years. The guy concerned is a heavy drinker, so it wouldn't be hard to get him stopped, breathalysed etc but he's got money, so he could afford a good lawyer.  And how soon would they smell a rat and get it thrown out of court. Whereas if he was stopped because he got caught up on the fringes of a security op. with your people...

"Were you just fluttering your eyelashes at me?" asked Mycroft.

"Too much?"

"It depends what you were hoping would happen. Though if you're going to keep doing that with your toes..." Mycroft leant forward and began to remove the various files adorning Lestrade's person, before unfastening his jeans.

"You needn't think you're getting a blow job after eating asparagus," warned Lestrade. He raised his hips to facilitate the removal of his jeans and boxers.

"I know. But I have every confidence you'll think of something."

 

MONDAY, 15th MARCH 2010

Mycroft waited until he had received confirmation that Watson had left for his interview at the agency specialising in placing locum GPs before he went to Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson opened the door in his face, and recoiled. "Oh, it's you," she said without enthusiasm.

This being an encounter he had hoped to avoid, Mycroft pinned an insincere smile in place. "Indubitably. What have I done wrong now?" he added with resignation.

Her hand fluttered between neck and the handbag dragging at her wrist. "Trying to bribe me."

"I said I was sorry."

Her eyes narrowed in a way familiar to Mycroft's seven year old self.

"Not that I remember hearing," Mrs Hudson said sternly. "Still, I can't stand here wasting time with you. I'm off to see - "

Mycroft thought the better of telling her about Mrs Chatterjee. Mrs Hudson hadn't appreciated his insights into her private life thirty years ago, that wasn't likely to have changed. Let Sherlock tell her and take the fallout.

"It wasn't a bribe," he said wearily, "just recompense for you taking in Sherlock. He'll make a lot of extra work."

"Like that's a novelty. Besides, I'm not his house-keeper."

"Indeed, no," agreed Mycroft peaceably.

"Now we've got that settled, you take these back." She fumbled in her bag, produced two fat envelopes and thrust them at him. "And no more of this nonsense, clear?"

"Clear," sighed Mycroft, wondering if he was destined to stand on the doorstep all morning.

"Though I'm not saying the odd bottle of whisky - for medicinal purposes - wouldn't go amiss. From time to time."

"Noted."

She reached out and tweaked the edge of his navy overcoat, before patting him. "You're looking peakier than usual. Have you been working too hard?"

Mycroft looked vague.

"That's what I thought. You need to find yourself a nice girl - young man, I should say. Well, I can't stand here all day gossiping. Sherlock's upstairs. Sulking."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. "About what?"

"John's gone off for a job interview. Was that your doing?"

"Not at all."

"Mmn," she said sceptically. "I hope not for your sake. Sherlock's that put out about it. I've just thought, if you're seeing your brother you won't need that car of yours. That nice young man can give me a lift - my hip's giving me gyp today. I do believe you've lost weight," she added artfully.

All too aware the reverse was true, Mycroft saw her into the back of his car, privately amused by the flurry of activity his security team would be experiencing behind the scenes.

David contented himself with giving Mycroft a pointed glare before he drove away with a particularly voluble Mrs Hudson.

　

"You were right, I was wrong," Mycroft announced to the silk-covered lump pretzeled on the sofa.

Sherlock uncurled enough to ease around the better to direct his glare. "What do you want? It hasn't been three months yet."

"I'm well aware of the fact but it's obvious John's as mad as you are."

A sudden, swift smile lit Sherlock's pale face. "I know. I keep telling him he doesn't need to work. You could sub him."

"A proposal he received with obvious enthusiasm," said Mycroft dryly as he made himself comfortable on John's chair.

"If I was right, you have to leave me alone for three months. That was the terms of our wager."

"I think we both know that won't be happening. You should know better than to take my word for anything. There's a small matter I'd like you to look into."

Sherlock dismissed that with a flamboyant flourish of his hand. "I don't want your boring little job. Lestrade's bound to have some interesting murder for me soon."

"I could order him not to involve you."

"Hah!" Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, a flash of amusement on his face. "Even you can't be stupid enough to believe you could stop him from doing what he thinks is right. He might be a fool, but he has principles. A moral compass."

"You recognized this?"

"God, no. John told me. He's finally accepted that Lestrade wasn't trying to fit me up on a bogus drugs charge."

Mycroft gave him a sudden, sharp look. "And would it be bogus?"

"Yes. If you want tea, you're out of luck. There isn't any."

"You could always go shopping," Mycroft pointed out.

"No point. John will see to it when he gets back."

　

 

Watson emerged from the tube station and was ten paces down the road when he saw the familiar black car. He didn't get in until the window wound down to reveal Mycroft, who opened the door for him.

"Thanks, I could do with a lift." Once seated, Watson shook the rain he had already accumulated from his hair onto Mycroft, who pretended not to notice.

"There may be occasions in the future when you might find this useful." While Mycroft hadn't intended to present it so soon - if at all - he trusted his instinct and handed Watson an envelope.

Watson gave it a severe look. "We've already had this discussion. I don't want your money."

"It's a license to carry, and if necessary use, a hand gun. It is not 'a get out of jail free card'. But any shooting you may be involved in, will be referred immediately to me and my people may choose to facilitate matters. Such licenses are not issued by the police, often, or lightly. Do _not_ abuse my trust," Mycroft added, the sudden bite to his voice straightening Watson's already straight spine.

"Thanks." Watson tucked the envelope into an inside pocket. "Though I don't suppose there will be many cases like the 'Study in Pink'."

"Try not to sound too disappointed. Life with Sherlock is unlikely to be predictable, or dull." Mycroft noted the small, quickly smothered smile.

"It hasn't been so far," Watson allowed.

"About Detective Lestrade's drugs bust the other month - "

"The flat's clean," said Watson quickly.

"Yes? It might not always be so. You need to know, at times of boredom, or when there's an r in the month, Sherlock might turn back to drugs. He started using in his late teens, and has been battling addiction ever since. Although it was a number of years before he conceded that it _was_ an addiction. I'm telling you this," Mycroft said, preempting whatever Watson had been about to say, "only because, with your help, he won't resort to the habit again. I'm not suggesting you spy on him and report to me, but if you're serious about wanting to protect him, you need to know this."

"What did he use?"

"For years it was cocaine. A solution. Then he moved on to heroin, which he found even harder to kick. Sherlock finally agreed to return to rehab and this particular clinic, combined with his determination, seemed to work." Mycroft handed over a card. "Should it be necessary, this is the name of the clinic in question, together with Sherlock's doctor. The bills will be sent to me."

"You don't want - ?"

"My wishes aren't paramount. I'm trusting you with my brother, John. Don't let him down."

"So you won't be around any more?"

"Don't be absurd, of course I will. Life wouldn't be the same without Sherlock to rub salt in my wounds"

　

 

"You're looking pensive," noted Lestrade, as Mycroft toyed with his evening meal. "Bad day?"

"It was fine. With the election in May at least I'm spared some of the more tedious meetings. I saw John Watson today," Mycroft added abruptly.

Lestrade set down his bottle of lager. "You didn't try to bribe him again?" He realised it was serious when Mycroft didn't rise to his teasing.

"I just hope I've done the right thing, placing Sherlock's well-being in John's hands. I told him - warned really - about the drugs."

"Ah. How did he take it?"

"He didn't even blink. But..." Mycroft pushed away his plate.

"You can't doubt he's Sherlock's man through thick and thin. Even I spotted that."

"I don't doubt it. That's why I've cut the strings with Sherlock. And what's so amusing?" Mycroft demanded, very much on his dignity.

"The idea of you ever letting go of someone you love," said Lestrade fondly. "You could use a couple of days off. So could I, come to that. Tell you what, get Moneypenny to free up some time for you and we'll go off and play with the Aston Martin you hired for me."

Mycroft reached for the phone.

 

　

To be followed by _Checks and Balances_

**Author's Note:**

> Gun culture - and law - is _very_ different in Britain from that of America


End file.
